


To the End of the Rail Line

by hiddencait



Series: Welcome to Vengeance [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU - Orphan train, Alternate Universe - Western, BAMF Phil Coulson, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Pre-Slash, See end notes for explained warnings, brief homophobic language, oops I created a verse, sickly!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/pseuds/hiddencait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky doesn't know where he and Steve are going to end up leaving the orphan train; the one thing he's sure of is that when they leave, it'll be together. No matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the End of the Rail Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andquitefrankly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andquitefrankly/gifts).



> So this was a blast to do, though damned if I haven't had a story fight me so hard when I tried to write it down. It's entirely possible that I might come back and play in this sand box later, but for now I stuck to my original idea. 
> 
> So AUs that andquitefrankly specifically requested were: Clint/Coulson Western AU, Bar/Pub AU (in this case saloon lol), and Small Town AU and Bucky/Steve Western AU. I hadn't originally planned to use more than one pairing, but this just worked so well, I couldn't resist. I really hope you enjoy it - I was a little worried about the kidfic and Sickly!Steve parts of this, but hopefully it's something you like!
> 
> BTW, most of my normal betas are outside the slashy comfort zone, and the others were swamped without responsibilties this weekend so all mistakes are mine. I did run this through grammarly.com though, so hopefully the worst of the errors were caught there. Let me know if you catch a specific typo and I'll fix it!

Steve was coughing again, the sound harsh and wet and worrying. It wasn’t as loud as Bucky was used to, though; the roar and racket of the train were drowning out most of the sounds even some twenty subdued children could produce. All the better, in Bucky’s opinion. The less Sister Mary Matthew and Father O’Malley thought about Steve’s illness the better.

 

They were already obviously regretting that Steve had been shipped out with this group of orphans heading out west to “new families” or whatever bullshit O’Malley had sold to the kids at the orphanage to get them to volunteer for this shipment. Steve had been healthier than usual when the train had left; Bucky knew that was the reason the nuns running the place had decided to risk sending him. They probably figured they’d let Steve get fostered out west and then the schmucks who took him in could deal with just how sickly Steve was. Least he wasn't using up orphanage money with all his doctors visits and medicines that way, right?

 

Bucky'd nearly been sick himself when he'd overheard Sister Mary Paul discussing her decision with Father O'Malley. So much for caring for the wayward flock. Bucky'd decided right then he'd be getting on that train with Steve, no matter what. It hadn’t even been that hard to convince ‘em to send him, either. At fourteen, he’d started getting taller finally, and damned if he couldn’t eat like the man he was near to becoming. Bucky figured Sister Mary Paul had decided to let some foster deal with his appetite same as Steve’s medicine. Bucky didn’t care why they’d let him go. Just as long as Steve didn’t have to go alone.

 

Course, now Bucky was pretty sure they regretted letting him go with Steve even more than sending Steve in the first place. Bucky had made it very clear several times over at every little spot-of-nothing town they'd stopped at that he wasn't going anywhere without Steve. Couple folks had tried to argue – a strong back like Bucky's would be useful to working a farm or ranch, and they figured he didn't have much say in the matter. He'd knocked out a tooth three towns back, and since then Father O'Malley hadn't sided with the dirt grubbers when Bucky turned ‘em down. Didn't side with Bucky, either, but that actually seemed to help Bucky out. Seemed like folks didn't want to tangle with a kid the Father didn't have anything good to say about.

 

There’d been one or two families that had seemed like they genuinely wanted Bucky and not just his ability to work for ‘em. Steve had been all sorts of angry with him for turning them down, but Bucky couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , leave Steve on his own. The punk ought to know that by now, Bucky thought, easing his arm behind the smaller boy to help support him through another round of coughing. They were pals, right? He and Steve, they hadn't been apart in years. Not since Steve's ma had sent him across the hall to stay with the Barnes the last time. She'd gone in to work at the hospital coughing a little, and she'd ended up never leaving again, dying in that awful place of the same damn sickness she'd been trying to help treat.

 

Bucky was glad Mrs. Rogers hadn't lived to see her son's fate come to this. She'd been able to hope things might get better for Steve living with Bucky and his parents. And she'd been right for a while. Steve had slid into their lives and their home like he belonged there. Least that's how Bucky always felt about it, and he hadn't though his folks disagreed. He'd never asked them though, and it was sure too late now.

 

No one could have guessed both of Bucky's folks would end up dead so soon after Steve's ma. It was better they hadn't seen it coming, Bucky thought. Better that it came as a blow out of nowhere and not the same dreaded end like she'd had. Steve had to grieve a long while even when his ma was still alive. Bucky'd grieved, too; it wasn't like he hadn't loved his parents. But it was a wound that had been able to close, instead of a scar on Steve's heart that had stayed torn open for months before Ms. Rogers finally passed.

 

Bucky always did heal quicker than Steve, though. Didn’t seem fair to him, but that was just the way it was.

 

Steve's coughing fit finally eased, but Bucky didn't pull his arm way. He'd left Steve lean on him as long as the other boy's pride would let him. Bucky had figured out a long time ago that was where he felt he belonged, right beside Steve lending whatever strength his friend needed.

 

No, Bucky wouldn’t be going anywhere without Steve. No matter what.

 

He pulled Steve a little closer and smiled softly as he felt his friend relax all at once, finally asleep. Bucky let his head slip down to rest against Steve’s. There was time for both of them to catch some shut eye before the next town, someplace called Vengeance, if Bucky remembered it right. Sure didn’t sound welcoming, but that wasn’t anything new.

 

They’d find a place though, Bucky hoped, whether in Vengeance or all the way out to the end of the rail line in sunny California. There was a place for them, somewhere. There had to be. He just had to keep believing it.

 

…

 

Phil heard the train whistle blow and barely managed not to curse in annoyance. Clint had missed the sound of the train, but noticed the aggravated look on the saloon owner’s face. Phil knew Clint would guess the reason. His lover knew him better than anyone, and Clint had been a captive audience to Phil's ire in recent weeks.

 

“Train comin’ in, huh. Guess we better get movin’ then.” Clint put away the glasses he'd been wiping down behind the bar and then wiped his own hands off on the rag before laying it to the side. "I'll tell Darcy to mind the bar. Not like she's old enough to matter out there."

 

Phil waited until Clint was facing him before he signed ‘thank you’ silently, too weary to bother speaking aloud or even to smile back when Clint flashed a small grin back at him. It was times like this that Phil really appreciated Clint’s knowledge of Indian sign that he’d gained during his time with the Cheyenne. It was easy to forget how much of an asset a silent language was when compared to the more visible skills with a bow that Clint had picked up at the same time. It was even easier to forget what had driven the boy Clint had been to the Cheyenne tribe in the first place. Deafened by the blast of a stagecoach robbing gone wrong and abandoned by his brother and the gang the orphaned boys had been running with, Phil knew Clint wouldn't have lasted long on his own. It had been a miracle that the small tribe had chosen to take the wounded white boy in, to teach him new ways to speak, to look, and to _feel_ everything around him, from the rumble of the ground before a stampede to the spark in the air before a storm. In the face of all of that knowledge, Phil often thought the preternatural talent with a bow and arrow to almost be superfluous. It was Clint himself that was the marvel.

 

That didn't mean he and his lover didn't occasionally fleece some extra coin out of the travelers that drifted in and out of the saloon with Clint's aim. It just meant that his aim wasn't all that Clint was. Especially not to Phil. Especially not him.

 

Phil sighed, somewhat settled by the thoughts and the hand low on his back guiding him away from the bar and out into the dusty street. Clint moved to his side then, the easy set to his shoulders showing no sign of how alert he must be while once again out in the air without a wall to put at his back.

 

If Phil had his way, neither of them would be out there today, going to meet the damned orphan train. Phil hated these things: hated the pomp and circumstance the adults in charge always demanded and the way the clearly sickly and underfed children were prodded into trotting out essays or songs like they were performing at a revival. Most of all, he hated known that more than half of the kids were going to end up as cheap labor, indentured servants at best, and slaves at worst. He just hated the whole damned charade.

 

There were worse ways for an orphan child to end up, though, Phil reminded himself again with a sidelong glance to Clint. It was that as much as anything that had him giving in to Fury's demands that he join the townsfolk when the train arrived. "Present a show of solidarity," Fury had said, "and show that Vengeance wasn’t just some outlaw paradise.”

 

Never mind that it sort of _was._ Any town where the Mayor was a former slave who'd reportedly drawn and quartered his abusive owner before joining a militia was going to attract a certain sort of resident and visitor. Usually those sorts had a decidedly negative relationship with the law. Their erstwhile Sheriff Hill being the exception, of course. Not that there weren’t half a dozen rumors about how a woman had obtained that star on her chest. Phil personally had never asked her which of the rumors were true; he liked his balls right where they were, thank you kindly.

 

Regardless of the many dubious pasts littered about its residents, if Fury wanted to present a united, semi-civilized front to the children who might or might not be staying in Vengeance, then that was what Fury would get.

 

Phil just hoped he'd get through all of this without losing his lunch at the sight. Or worse, without Clint all but silently begging him to let them take in one of the wayward waifs. Assuming the folks in charge would even let them. He was fairly sure it was the Catholic contingent running the show with this shipment of kids. Phil figured it was beyond doubtful they'd think the vaguely Protestant saloon owner would be a fit father figure for one of their flock. And that was even without considering Clint's role in said saloon owner's life. The people in town knew better than to say a word about the pair of them, but the drifters and well-to-do sometimes had to be taught a lesson in how to hold their tongues. No, the more Phil thought about it, it less likely it was that _any_ of the children would be settled here in Vengeance. He'd be surprised if the priest in charge didn't hustle everyone back on the train as soon as they caught sight of the motley crowd waiting at the station.

 

He smothered a sigh as the rickety platform came into view, and shared a rueful smile with Sheriff Hill as he and Clint approached. She looked about as thrilled as Phil felt, but Maria, like Phil, would do her duty if Fury demanded it of her. Phil doubted she’d be needed in her official capacity with a group of underfed orphans, but one never knew in this town. It was probably for the best that she was there and prepared just in case things went wrong, which was unfortunately the usual case when it came to outsiders entering Vengeance.

 

With a gust of foul smelling smoke and a squeal of metal on metal, the train finally pulled up to the platform and came to an ear-splitting halt.

 

When the pair of adults stepped down from the car and stared out at the crowd, Phil almost chuckled at looks on both of their faces. He'd imagined they were more used to seeing more respectable folk waiting for them, like farmers and ranchers, or wives and school teachers. Maybe a lawman or preacher, too, but nothing like the folks of Vengeance. He watched their eyes drift across the town. The lines around their mouths tightened as they took in Fury's dark skin, Maria's trousers and gun belt, and Natasha Romanov's bare shoulders and barely-there corset and petticoat. She must have cut a job short to answer Fury's summons to the station. Phil wondered idly just which of Maria's Wanted posters had caught the lovely young bounty hunter's eye this week. He figured they'd find the body soon enough.

 

Clint shifted next to him, bringing their shoulders in contact, that slight movement the only sign of his discomfort. That movement had attracted the sister's attention, though, and Phil fought back a scowl at the look of disgust as she stared at the pair of them. Phil looked respectable enough, he supposed. It wasn't exactly easy to find a proper tailor this far west. But Clint on the other hand - Clint, who'd kept the buckskin leggings and boots of his tribe and paired them with one of Phil's cast off waistcoats, he looked nowhere near civilized. Clint looked wild.

 

Frankly, it was one of the reasons Phil was so damned attracted to the man. The nun didn’t seem to approve however. Phil resisted the urge to just lean over and kiss his lover, to truly scandalize the judgmental bitch. He figured that wouldn’t help Fury’s respectability show, though. He settled for leaning his shoulder harder into Clint’s.

 

Behind the priest and nun on the platform, children were slowly easing their way out of the railcar as if unsure of their welcome. Phil didn't blame them – the adults they'd arrived with didn't seem all that pleasant, and he knew his crowd was a bit intimidating. Still it looked like one or two of the youngsters had some spirit. There was a redheaded girl with freckles scolding one or two boys younger than herself, scolding and tugging until they lined up properly with the other. She was going to end up a boon to whoever eventually fostered her. Phil wondered if it was the fact that she was so clearly Irish that had kept her from being chosen so far. Some of the Protestant farmers he'd met might have hesitated to take on a young Catholic girl. Foolish in Phil’s opinion: religion wouldn’t make the girl any less responsible.

 

He let his eyes leave the girl and wander across the line, his hands clenching into fists as he noted how thin all of the children looked. He wondered how long they’d been on the damn train and when they’d eaten last. Father Who-ever-he-was and Sister Snide didn’t seem to be missing any meals. A calloused hand slipped over his fist and gripped it hard, and Phil tried to relax, opening his hand to squeeze Clint’s back once before letting go.

 

The townsfolk were moving up to the platform now, inspecting the offerings with hardly any more enthusiasm than Phil. Catching Fury’s pointed glance, Phil forced himself to look back at the children, wondering why he was bothering. Even if he wanted to foster one of them, it wasn’t like their caretakers would allow a saloon owner to corrupt one of their ‘precious’ lambs. Still, sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t be good for him and Clint, to build something like a family with more than just the two of them.

 

Almost against his will, Phil found his eyes falling on a pair of older boys at the end of the line. He wasn't sure what exactly was intriguing him. It might have been the way the taller of the two, one of the healthier looking boys in the group, was so clearly shielding the other from the eyes of the crowd, at least as much as the line up allowed him to. Not that the other boy was having any of his sheltering, Phil noticed with a small smile. The shorter boy was drawing himself up to his full, though still somewhat diminutive, height, whispering furiously in the other boy’s ear. Phil couldn’t hear what the blonde was saying, but it didn’t appear to be anything his taller friend wanted to listen to.

 

Phil nudged Clint with his elbow, and when he'd turned to face Phil, he nodded in the pair’s direction. “What you think is their story?”

 

Clint glanced over and then paused, eyes focusing on the boys with more attention than Phil’d expected. He didn't ask what Clint had noticed that he hadn't, knowing there was no way Clint would hear the question, and Phil doubted he'd be able to draw his eyes away to read his lips or hands. Instead, he waited, trusting that Clint would tell him if it was something he needed to know.

 

It all happened too quick for Clint to say shit, unfortunately. One of the local cattle ranchers, a decent enough man if not terribly friendly, approached the dark haired boy, but it was clear he didn’t want anything the man was offering. The blonde seemed to be trying to convince his friend though, half shoving him in the rancher’s direction. Only… Phil’s eyes narrowed. Was the blonde starting to sway?

 

"Get the doc!" Clint shouted and shot forward, pushing through the crowd and vaulting onto the platform, then lunging forward to catch the blonde boy as he collapsed all at once.

 

"Steve! Let go, damn it!" The dark haired boy was railing at the rancher, throwing punches, and just doing anything to try to get him away. Before he knew he'd decided to move, Phil found himself between the now-enraged rancher and the boy.

 

“Back off, Murphy,” he ordered, finally remembering the other man’s name. “Give us room.” He turned back to see the older boy had knelt beside Clint and his friend, hovering like he wanted to shove Clint away, too, but not quite daring enough to manage it. Clint bent over the other boy's chest, listening to him breathe, his other hand pressed against the boy’s forehead.

 

He sat up again and looked round for Phil, relief clearly when he saw him already close by. "Kid's breathing awful shallow, and he's feverish as hell. We need Banner quick-like."

 

There was a flash of red, and the dark haired boy flinched back at Natasha's sudden appearance. "Bruce's out at the Stevens' place. The wife fell and broke her leg. He won't be back for hours yet."

 

Phil thought quickly. He waved to catch Clint’s eye again. “You know enough to help if we raid the doc’s stores?”

 

Clint furrowed his brow, looking back down at the kid and then up at Phil again before nodded slowly. “I think so. At least enough to keep him breathing ‘til Banner gets back.”

 

“Good, then let’s get him back to the Bullseye. The back room’s not rented out. We can put him in there for now.”

 

Clint didn’t bother to answer, just tucked his arms under the boy and rose smoothly, cradling the boy against his chest.

 

“Wait, where he’s going? I got to go with him. Steve-” The boy jerked back, and Phil turned to see the priest had the boy’s arm in a hard grip. "Damn it, let me go!"

 

“Shut your mouth, Barnes! Bad enough you’ve driven off another fosterer, but to flaunt your unnatural attachment to that boy is too much. Best it came to this now. He’ll be dead, and you’ll go where you’re told,” the priest snapped, and Phil felt himself snap, rage hot in his chest.

 

His hand lashed out to grip the priest’s forearm, digging in until the other man was forced to release the boy. The priest stepped forward, clearly furious and about to shout, but he was silenced by the cocking of a pistol Phil hadn’t even realized he’d drawn.

 

“The boy’s going to live, and he’s staying with us. So’s this one,” Phil said. He’d spoken softly, but it was clearly heard, the crowd going silent as soon as his pistol had made its appearance. Most of the townsfolk knew what it meant when Phil spoke that softly.

 

The priest didn’t, unfortunately for him. “Just who do you think you are-”

 

Phil’s empty hand hit him hard across the jaw with a crack that sent the priest reeling backwards, almost knocking the nun to the ground as he stumbled.

 

“Phil Coulson. I own the Bullseye saloon. I think you’ll find I am a fine, upstanding citizen for these parts.” Phil smiled, and the nun shrank back from it. “Now, as I said, the boys are staying with me.” Well hell, he thought, realizing what he’d said. Guess he was fostering a couple orphans after all. Damn it, Nick was never going to let him live this down.

 

Sighing a little in annoyance, he holstered his weapon and tipped his hat. "You folks have a fine day." He started back towards the edge of the platform and paused when the boy didn't follow. "You coming, son? Clint will be looking to your friend, but it might be best for someone he knows to be nearby."

 

“Steve,” the boy answered, slowing moving towards Phil. “His name is Steve Rodgers. He’s… He’s always been sickly. ‘S why no one’s taken him before now.”

 

“And your name?”

 

The boy tried a cock-sure smile, faking confidence Phil could see right through to the scared kid underneath. “I’m Bucky Barnes.”

 

“Welcome to Vengeance, then, Bucky,” Phil replied and then turned on his heel and hopped off the platform. “Let’s got check on your friend.”

 

…

 

Bucky rubbed his eyes, relief turning to an overwhelming exhaustion. Seemed Clint had known what he was about after all. Steve was on the mend, or so the doc had said once the older man had finally arrived back in town. For the first time in a long while, Bucky was willing to take someone at their word. Several someones, really. The doc was a straight shooter, sure, but it was the pair of men who'd stood up to the priest and nun that had Bucky feeling like maybe he could let himself rest a bit.

 

Phil’d said they were safe here, had promised no one was going to separate Bucky from Steve, not if Phil had anything to say about it. Father O'Malley had kicked up one hell of a fuss as Bucky'd followed Phil away from the train, but Phil had just leveled another glare, and that had been that. And more than that, the rest of the townsfolk had backed him, from the Sheriff and the pretty redhead to the frankly terrifying Negro mayor. It said a lot about the saloon owner that the entire town had gotten between Bucky and the priest on nothing more than a nod from the man. It was a hell of a thing to see.

 

If Bucky was honest though, it wasn’t the almost frighteningly confident Phil who’d convinced Bucky to sit tight. Sit tight? Hell, Bucky wasn't even bothering to plan on running with Steve once he was feeling up to it. Didn't seem much point – even if they hadn't been set up in a clean room with the nicest bed Bucky had seen in years, Bucky doubted they'd find a place like this one.

 

A place where a man who'd normally be an outcast, a man like Clint, could belong. Bucky'd always been good at sizing a person up, of figuring out what made them tick, and he couldn’t help but see parts of himself in Clint. Bucky’d seen enough on the streets back in New York to recognize a tough son of a bitch, and Clint was one such son of a bitch if he was anything. But that wasn’t all the man was. The gentle way he was tending to Steve when Bucky and Phil got to the saloon told him that much.

 

Bucky didn’t know the older man’s story yet, but there were glimpses, signs that said he knew the worst kind of monster a man could be, but still believed there were people worth saving.

 

Damned if Bucky wasn’t a little proud a man like that seemed to think he and Steve were one of the ones who might be worth it. And damned if he didn’t want to live up to that kind of belief.

 

Yes, they’d be staying here, Bucky decided with a final nod to himself before leaning forward to rest his head on his arms on the bed next to Steve’s slumbering form. They’d stay here with the two men who’d offered up their protection to both of them.

 

That was the key, wasn’t it, he thought. Clint and Phil – they’d looked to _both_ of them, Bucky _and_ Steve, and seen them as worth standing up to Father O'Malley over. Worth keeping around, even.

 

And that chance at a home together, that was work sticking around. Bucky lifted his head up just enough to slip one hand out to grip Steve’s softly. He’d tell him they were staying in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> This could technically be marked as underage as both Bucky and Steve are early teens - but it is preslash only. There is no explicit smut anywhere in this fic, so I figured not marking it was safe. 
> 
> Period typical homophobic language from one character, but overall not a theme of the story.
> 
> BTW, just in case I accidentally offend anyone - I am NOT an expert on Cheyenne or any other Native American cultures. I did do some reasearch for this fic, but just in case my sources were screwy, I wanted to say that I have the utmost respect for those cultures and hope I did them justice. The Cheyenne influences due not take center stage too much in this fic beyond Clint's ability to sign and ability to use a bow. Mostly I just wanted the old fashioned Western movie feel without being horribly racist like some of those films were. Hopefully I succeeded!
> 
> Also, I mean no disrespect to the Catholic or Protestant faiths either - the awful conditions on the orphan trains and the predjudice back and forth between the different factions sending the trains are historical fact, unfortunately. 
> 
> At least, I can be happy that our Marvel characters handling these sorts of things better in my little fictional town of Vengeance LOL.


End file.
